


Alexander

by Pansexualweirdo



Category: The Stanley Parable
Genre: Author is Cursive Happy, But what else is new?, Developing Relationship, Existentialism, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Romance, Selectively Mute Stanley (The Stanley Parable), Stanley Has Depression™, Stanley Signs Instead of Speaking, Unread
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:28:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25388296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pansexualweirdo/pseuds/Pansexualweirdo
Summary: Stanley refuses to follow any of the Narrator's orders one day, instead spending the day in the employee lounge. It turns out that the employee lounge is perfect for working out your issues.Oh, and Stanley gives the Narrator a name.[No, I will not give up on this fandom, it is my child] As always, enjoy your read! <3
Relationships: The Narrator & Stanley (The Stanley Parable), The Narrator/Stanley (The Stanley Parable)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 126





	Alexander

Could you imagine being trapped in the same building, in your _work complex_ , for days on end? Weeks? _Months?_ Not knowing how long you’ve been there, but merely wandering, trying to find a way out, yet to no avail? Could you imagine yourself being alone, going through the same corridors, the same lounge, and the same offices in an endless, infinite, horrid loop? Never needing to eat, use the bathroom, or even hydrate? Not knowing the time, if it even passed _at all,_ or if it’s day or night?

No? Does it sound bad? Well, that’s just a sneak-peak, an _introduction_ , if you will, to what Stanley’s everyday life is.

As if his job wasn’t boring enough already, going to the same, unbearably dull room every single day of every week of every year - sitting in a cheap chair and pressing buttons. But now, he’d been cursed with this for eternity. Trapped inside this industry complex with no escape.

Stanley had tried everything to get out. Every door, every room, every button on every device in the building imaginable. He knew the facility’s ins and outs before this, and **_now?_** He could walk around blindfolded and still know exactly where his office was, where the meeting room was, and even where the bloody broom closet was located. He could tell you what objects were in the building in alphabetical order, while so smashed he couldn’t walk a straight line.

Ah, yes, alcohol. Stanley would cut off his right leg for some right about now. Just a sip would do, really. What occupied Stanley’s thoughts the majority of the time, what he incessantly worked on, was figuring out if this all was real. Yes, it sounds bizarre, but think about it. Looping rooms, ceased hunger and fatigue, it all sounded like an insane nightmare or... a _game_.

The narrator had been able to pinpoint exactly what Stanley felt and thought countless times, making him question and doubt reality itself. Especially when he reached ‘endings’, when he _died_. He had done this too, multiple times.

Or perhaps he was just crazy. Yes, the possibility definitely existed, and it was a highly believable one too, considering the way the man had been acting out recently.

He barely slept - when he did he tried to sleep through _days_ \- and he could randomly lash out at the most minuscule thing. He had yelled, cried, speculated, _searched_. Searched for hope, for some way out.

And as a delicious cherry on top, something Stanley hated deep down to his very core and that kept him sane at the same time - there was a narrator. A voice broadcasted from speakers placed all around the building, in every single room -- Stanley tried to reach and destroyed them several times, but they were out of his reach --, narrating the man’s every thought and decision, ordering him around. ‘Stanley walked through the red door’ this and ‘Stanley, you’re going the wrong way’ that. Nearly drove him mad, it did.

Who was this person, this narrator? Was he real or just an AI? A figment of Stanley’s imagination to aid his loneliness, perhaps? A torture experiment on Stanley that would command and brainwash him until he eventually committed suicide? Well, even if Stanley _did_ kill himself, everything would just restart and he would be back in his office again. He had found this out from experience.

One thing that kept Stanley going, however, was the optimistic thought that whoever this narrator was, this exasperatedly smart and quick-mouthed British, he was real. He ran out of ideas frequently, got angry, and freaked out, just like every other human did.

Besides, there simply was no way Stanley’s mind could come up with such a maddening, alluring, and peculiar voice.

“Stanley, are you slacking off again? Come now, we have things to do!”

There it was again, that voice.

Placed in a comfy sofa crease in the lounge was Stanley, wrinkling his nose in distaste upon hearing the narrator’s voice. He had this train of thought going, but he never got too far before the narrator wanted to order him around again.

‘Will you lay off? You sound like my boss,’ he signed up towards the roof, only to hear a chuckling sound from the speakers in response. He considered the possibility of the narrator _enjoying_ this. Tormenting Stanley.

“I _am_ your boss, in a way.”

‘Piss off,’ signed the employee in response, and a berated sigh followed it, muffled, as though the man covered the microphone when doing it.

“Please, let’s not argue first thing in the morning. We have such a lovely day ahead of us.”

Stanley shifted in his seat but made no indication to get up. Although he’s got to hand it to his involuntary company, he had a pretty optimistic mindset about this hellhole. A question lingered in the back of Stanley’s mind, and the narrator seemed to take notice of this. He hummed.

“What is it now? You look cemented to your thoughts, as always. Why don’t you enlighten me and speak them aloud instead? That way, I can help you solve this _inscrutable_ conundrum of yours so that we can both move on,” the voice asked, sarcasm dripping off his tone, and Stanley scoffed but complied nonetheless.

He had very little to lose, anyway, and worst-case scenario; the narrator abstained from replying.

‘Why are you here?’ he signed, thinking it a foolish question once out there, but the narrator didn’t mock him. He only spoke up after a moment’s consideration.

“I-... What do you mean?”

‘You _know_ what I mean,’ Stanley hastily replied, rolling his eyes, and when the narrator stammered an unintelligible slur of words, he could almost picture his expression. Eyebrows tightly pinched together, that smart mouth of his going slack and his wide eyes blinking a couple of times as he adjusted his glasses.

Unsure of _why_ , the employee pictured the narrator as a glasses-wearing type. His interpretation of the man’s looks and the way he would carry himself was almost... attractive? No, that couldn’t be it, that was _absurd!_

 _Good Lord,_ Stanley thought, grimacing, _I must really be getting lonely._ Fantasizing about this man he’s never met, whose name he doesn’t know. Besides, Stanley’s fantasy of the person this voice belonged to was probably nothing remotely close to what he actually looked like. Not that he wondered what he looked like...

Okay, Stanley, back to the task at hand. Back to your _query_.

‘You can leave whenever you want, can’t you? Why stay?’

Suddenly, a laugh bounced off the walls, not malicious, but doubtlessly forced.

“Wait, you-... you _actually_ think I know a way out of here?”

A grim undertone painted his voice, and Stanley didn’t like it.

“If I did, I would’ve left long ago... ” he explained flatly, and a pressure formed in Stanley’s chest from hearing those words. He frowned, shaking his dark fringe out of his eyes and staring up at the ceiling, desperate to hear that the narrator was just fucking with him.

“And taken you with me, of course,” added the narrator, and no- he _wasn’t_ joking.

“Do you think I chose this, Stanley? Do you think _I’m_ the one who trapped you here?”

Stanley gaped, all of a sudden worked up, and _surprised_ , to say the least. He only held grudges against and had speculations of the British man being the villain in the beginning. Back when he didn’t know him, when he wanted someone to project his anger onto. But to hear this now was almost _offensive_.

‘Of course not!’ he mouthed up to the ceiling, hoping the British man could read lips. He should be able to, they’d communicated just fine so far.

“Well, that’s!-...” began the voice, but he trailed off, stumbling on his words. Did he expect Stanley to say yes? He sure sounded ready to defend himself.

A _harrumph_ sounded in the speakers.

“... That’s good. Because this might come as a shock to you, Stanley, but I’m just as stuck as you are in this forsaken place. I always have been, so you’d think I’d be used to it, that I’d deem this reality ‘normal’. But I’m not dense. I know there’s a world outside of this one. I’ve read about it. I’ve been _taught_ about it.”

 _Wait, what?_ That made it sound like the narrator never existed outside of this box, that he had been trapped here against his will. Stanley felt a spike of repentance stabbing into his chest, this man had it worse than _he_ did.

“Oh, wipe that patronizing look off your face, I’m no more miserable than you. Although I’m afraid you’ll find any hopes or plans of escaping this facility dissipating soon if they haven’t already.”

His voice was gruff and lost any spark of enthusiasm when he finished it, a bitter taste coating every word that came out of the speakers. Stanley’s heart sunk more for each word that left the man’s lips. The narrator had rendered him speechless.

“You... don’t need to say anything.”

But Stanley signed up to him anyway.

‘I’m sorry.’

“...”

“...”

“Me too...”

* * *

Both parties went quiet for a while, solemnity and something akin to dejection heavy in the air. Stanley eventually sat up on the sofa in the lounge, crossing his legs. He wished he had a more personal name to call his - friend? acquaintance? - other than ‘the narrator’. It would make things a bit more fun, give their relationship a tad more meaning. He had asked the other’s name once before, and when he did, the man replied that he didn’t _have_ one. Stanley thought he was bullshitting him at first, but with what everything the narrator had told him, it all added up. It was... kind of sad. But maybe, just maybe...

But what would be a suitable name? Certainly, ‘dickhead’, ‘cockgobbler’, or ‘half-wit’ wouldn’t cut it. Hmm... Matthew? No, that wasn’t it... Andrew, Ethan, Fred? No, none of those. George? No, not that either... Alex? …

Wait. Hold on a minute, that worked! _Alexander the narrator._ Yes, that would do quite nicely, Stanley thought, quite happy with himself.

‘Thank you for telling me the truth, Alex,’ he signed, a little blushy over just enforcing the name like that. But it was a good a time as any.

“Alex?”

Stanley nodded, mute.

‘Short for Alexander. You said you don’t have a name, so I wanted to give you one.’

“You, I-...”

The moments that the narrator became tongue-tied were few, and a strange sense of pride swelled in Stanley’s chest.

“You thought that out... for me?”

Stanley turned on the couch, picking on a loose thread in the fabric with his head down. He felt heat creep up on his cheeks and he preferred to keep it to himself.

‘You don’t have to use it if you don’t like it.’

“Alexander... I love it! Alex, yes, of course. I don’t know why I haven’t thought of that years ago. It’s brilliant, Stanley, just _brilliant!”_ he exclaimed, ecstatic. Was it warm in here?

‘Don’t mention it...’ mouthed the employee back, confused over his fluster. Alex just sounded so delighted to have a name, and Stanley was the first, if not the _only_ one, to get to say it. He signed it letter by letter in the air, mesmerized with the way it sounded and how much closer he felt to the man with it.

“Ahem. Well, now that this sappy stuff is over with...”

Alex cleared his throat, sounding a mite unnerved. Maybe it was just Stanley’s imagination.

“We should get on with the story again, huh, Stanley?”

Finally, Stanley rose from the sofa, invigorated with new energy and for the first in a long, _long_ time, hope. Hope that things wouldn’t be as awful from now on.

‘Okay, Alex.’


End file.
